The unborn exist in the place between reality and dreams. They wink into being at their appointed time and dance excitedly around the firmament awaiting their chance at life. Each shines like a small star as it anticipates that moment when a fertile womb opens to receive the gift of being. 

In the beginning, The Creator set Their thumbprint on a ball of mud before breathing fire into a cloud of gases to warm Their newest toy.  As life took its tentative first steps, the unborn came swarming from the place beyond – avid to share the youngness of this place – and the creatures that walked on the ball of mud loved them. There was competition for each birth, and the unborn blazed with life and vitality as the excitement of the future animated their flight. As century rolled into century there always seemed to be a mother awaiting the blessing of a child, and each spark of newness found a place in which to grow.

Satisfied that all was good The Creator turned Their eyes away from this thing They had made and sought Their entertainment elsewhere. 

For many times many turns of the wheel the creatures on the ball of mud lives simple blameless lives, looking only to have enough to eat and occasionally bash their enemies on the head with wooden clubs. They were uninteresting, and The Creator’s influence bypassed that little corner of infinity, eventually waning to such an extent that The Opposite was able to stand on His own scaly feet on that insignificant ball of mud spreading knowledge and malice, and laughing as the creatures around Him lost their innocence.

Even then, The Creator were so wrapped up in more interesting species that They failed to notice how the creatures that walked on the ball of mud turned their eyes away from the skies. 

Instead, they scuttled around in the dirt, digging and scrabbling and fighting among themselves. They forgot their covenant with The Creator. They forgot their responsibilities towards the planet on which they walked. And they even forgot the need to continue their own species in the selfish drive to grasp as much as possible and hold it.  

For the first time since the Creator set this being into motion the unborn were unwanted. They grew pale and sickly, and in the end they began to will themselves out of existence, going from glorious and golden, to green and feeble, and eventually ceasing to be.

Called away from greater pleasures by the gnawing pain of the unborn, The Creator turned Their eyes on that which They had made and found it no longer good. They wrung Their hands in agonised indecision torn between what was right and Their avowed intent never to interfere with a created species. 

In the end, the pain of the unborn persuaded The Creator that steps must be taken and they sent their own unborn as Mashiach. He put his white feet on the spinning rock and spoke of love and salvation, but the creatures listened not. He stood on the mountain they called Zahyeet and spoke of the joy of family and the care of children. But the creatures turned their faces from him, indeed some among their number threw stones at him and called him ignorant, immigrant, impious. Then they turned their backs on his fair visage and went on with their games and power plays. They stopped their ears with the wax of money and power. And they lost even further the memory of what they were intended to be. Mashiach felt such sorrow that he took himself into the desert – and where his tears fell there bloomed an oasis of such beauty that the creatures made war on each other for the ownership of that tiny strip of green. And if, somehow in their vicious struggles, the pale Mashiach died, who was to care. 

The Creator watched. Their horror and revulsion was such that Their cries could be heard as thunder all about Their creation, and the one great tear that ran down Their face created a tsunami on the spinning rock that drowned countries and cities with indiscriminate malice. But even events of such magnitude could not call the creatures away from the abyss of self-seeking and loveless interaction. 

The unborn wailed in their despair and, even as another group winked out of being, The Creator lifted Their head. 

It came to Them, on a wave of sorrowful realisation, that this creation was beyond Their help and they turned Their face from it knowing in Their heart what They must do.

The last of the unborn willed themselves out of existence as The Creator reached one hand across the firmament and plucked the ball of burning gas from the sky. They crushed it in Their hand and the ball of mud went dark..

©️ Jane Jago 2018

Three tubby girls
Three wobbly bellies
See how they jog
Jiggling like jellies
They all ran after the skinny lad
The one whose intentions were naughty and bad
Oh what a good time the bad boy had
With three tubby girls

©️jj 2018

It is August and I am in Athens, walking upon the very stones the Ancients walked. Thus my thoughts are turned to the fair Muses themselves. Instead of lessons to learn, I offer here some bouquets plucked from my own garden of verse. Enjoy!

Biker Biker

Biker, biker roaring past
In the street, night before last
What the hell possess-ed thee
To wake me up at half-past three?

On what distant motorway
Did you begin your ride that day?
On what tarmac didst you roll
From whence came you my sleep to troll?

And what hard shoulder fast depart
Could twist your manifold apart?
So that the popping of the sound
Could so reverberate around?

What did hammer your bike chain
To make it thunder in the rain?
What did make you choose my road
To burden with your heavy load?

When the stars – or sparks more like,
Flew from the tailpipe of your bike,
Did you wonder what fell fate
Left you back-firing by my gate?

Biker, biker roaring past
In the street, night before last
What the hell possess-ed thee
To blast me up at half-past three?

Rubaiyat Sonnet

Alas the Muse must vanish with the light
And close the manuscript of youthful fire
Why must I have so many thoughts in flight?
Why will not my Muse simply me inspire?
For every night a glass I have turned down
On this inverted bowl I call my desk
And bent my head for the laureates crown
To birth another written arabesque
But whence the bird forth from the branch hath flown?
How is’t Her brightness hence from me doth go?
Now here, abandoned, weeping, I do groan,
To ask why my Muse doth despise me so?

O Muse!

Oh Muse
How thou despitest me
With thine honeyed tongue in another’s ear
Oh Muse
How thou despiseth me
Wandering fingertips drawing another near
Oh Muse
What has thy servant done
That thou takes flight into the setting sun
Oh Muse
Oh harlot dancing veiled alone
If I thee beg on bended knee wilt come home
Oh Muse
How thou mistreateth me
Who but thy every torment loves
Oh Muse
How thou defeatest me
Thy servant and the tenderest of doves
Oh Muse
Oh fickle Muse!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join IVy’s Fan Club!

An extract from The Dragonheart Stories: Fairytales for Grownups by Jane Jago

The dragon spiralled down out of the sunset, with the orange light setting his skin aflame so that he looked as if he was made of oil and steel. Tia stood and watched, wryly noting the Diamond Throne banner, whilst being careful not to move or speak until the shining one’s feet touched the ground and he furled his wings.  
She bowed her head in a formal gesture of welcome.
“Greetings lady,” the voice inside her head was deeper than she expected. This must be a full male, which meant he would be a shifter as well. He would bear watching. Carefully.
“Greetings, bright one.”
The dragon regarded her out of whirling multi-faceted eyes before bowing his head. The silence lengthened, and seemed to Tia that her uninvited guest was trying to make her nervous with his lack of comment. She broke the silence in a deliberately small voice.
“What does my lady mother want of me?”
“Naught. She would merely ascertain that you are well.”
Tia cast down her eyes so he could not see her contempt.
“Perhaps my lord dragon would care to assume his human form and venture inside, to where we can speak in more comfort.”
If it was possible for a dragon to look puzzled, he did so.
“May one ask what makes you think this dragon has a human form?”
For a moment Tia dropped her shield of humility.
“Who am I?” she raised a narrow dark eyebrow.
He thought about that one for a moment before dipping his head.
“One is ashamed.”
Tia was at great pains not to show her contempt for that remark. 
“I apologise. It was not my intention to cause you disquiet.”
She felt the dragonish laughter as a vibration that ran right through her skeleton.
“My name is M’a’tsu, and I would be honoured to visit with you.”
Tia curtseyed.
“I will leave you to make the change in privacy.”
She turned and made her way across the flower strewn meadow to the grey stone buildings that clustered at the base of the cliffs and the stone stairway to the temple.
M’a’tsu watched her go, enjoying her long-legged stride and the way her body moved under the simple linen robe she wore. He found himself fantasising about tying her up with the rope of her own black hair, which hung in a braid almost to her knees. Giving himself a sharp inward reminder that he wasn’t there for pleasure, he took the necessary time to compose his mind before making the change. 
Once he was in his human form, he stretched for a moment enjoying the different sensations afforded by thinner skin. He looked down at his muscular perfection and briefly considered remaining unclothed but the pleasure of the rapidly cooling air against his human flesh had to be balanced against the possibility of giving offence. Accordingly he shifted himself leather trews and a waistcoat, electing to remain barefoot for the sheer delight of the feel of grass beneath him.
The temple on the clifftop seemed bigger now and much further away. He rather wished for his dragon form and the possibility of flying instead of climbing the steep stairs. However, that was forbidden and he had no wish to incur the displeasure of the goddess. Dragons before him had crashed to their deaths against the jagged rocks of that cliff face. He had no mind to join them. He squared his shoulders and began to walk.

Want to read more? 

Dragonheart Stories: Fairy Tales for Grownups by Jane Jago

A magnificent adults-only collection of dragon stories!

One of my favourite things to discover is a book that gives the reader a sense of the author’s own personality. The incidental humour and quirky characters in these stories are evidence of a creative mind brimming with ideas and unafraid to follow them wherever they lead.

The Dragonheart Stories Is a brilliant collection of short stories that are imaginative, sensual and highly original — and definitely not for children! Very conservative readers would probably not appreciate them either, although this reader considers that to be very much to their own loss. The stories are much like the nature of their dragon characters: magnificent, beautiful, rowdy, complex, and at times aggressive, but at the same time filled with insight. Each story is both entertaining and thought-provoking. The narration instils in the reader a sense of reverence for the dragons, but also considerable affection for the central characters.

I really hope there are more of these stories to come. It is only fitting that this humble squirrel should pay these wonderful dragons tribute with a Golden Acorn.

This review was originally published at bookssquirrel.wordpress.com home of the talented Joanne Van Leerdam.
Look out for tomorrow’s extract here on the Working Title Blog...

An extract from 'When Dai met Bryn' one of the two stories in Dying to be Friends by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

The Prefect had an office at the top of the Vigiles building with a panoramic view over Londinium. The Augusta Arena, Constantius Column, the Temple of the Divine Diocletian set in beautiful parkland running down to the river, the sub aquila housing, the Forum and the new baths. Dai presumed the Prefect’s view would be even better than the one he had from the small waiting area outside the office. He was on his fourth cup of water from the cooler and wondering if he should risk a quick trip to the snack dispenser he had seen by the lifts to curtail his stomach’s noisy ambition to digest itself, when the door opened and he was shown in to the Prefect’s sanctum.

The Prefect was a stiff-backed old-school Vigiles, clearly not too many years from his – presumably – well-earned retirement back to the warmth and civilisation of Rome. He was standing, not sitting when Dai walked in and responded to his salute with little more than an upwards nod of his head. Dai, standing in his best parade-ground stance, said nothing.

“Llewellyn,” the Prefect was behind his desk and reached down to tap a folder on it – old-school – with the photo of Dai pinned to the front they had taken when he signed up for the course. “Good things. It says very good things.”

There was a pause and the Prefect stared at him as if expecting some response.

“Thank you, dominus, I am glad I have been meeting expectations.”

“Meeting. Exceeding. Top of the class, Llewellyn. Highest score we’ve had in years.”

This time Dai said nothing in the silence. They were not told their mark on the Investigator’s exam, only that they had passed it.

“Yes,” the Prefect went on as if answering a question, “Impressive for a Briton. Direct graduate too. Master’s degree. What was that in again?”

“British History,” Dai provided, painfully aware how that sounded every time he said it. “I did do sub-units on the Early Empire and the reign of the Divine Diocletian as well,” he added hurriedly. But for all the reaction he got, he could have said it was Celebrity Studies or Creative Cartwheeling. Dai felt the usual sensation of being invisible, even though on this occasion at least, he was the supposed focus of a Roman’s attention.

“Vacancy here,” the Prefect was saying. “Lost the last man. Tragedy. He was promising too. Very bright. Shame. But have to have someone and you’ll do. Be wasted in the sticks anyway.”

Dai blinked and tried to make sense of what he was hearing. He opened his mouth to ask if he could ask something, but the prefect was speaking again.

“Accommodation provided for the first month, after that on your own – but you’ll be paid by then and can find something in one of the estates.” Then the Prefect stepped away from the desk and glowered at Dai. “I don’t like appointing one of you people, but this role needs it. You will be dealing more with your sort than with Citizens.”

Your sort. The sting of made Dai’s guts tighten.

“I’m not sure I understand, dominus. I am going home tom-”

The Prefect made that odd upward nod, like a wild animal scenting blood.

“No. Not happening. We need you here. Starting now.”

There was no room to argue. He had signed up for twenty years minimum service. But it was going to be a very awkward call to his brother telling him he needed to find another groomsman at short notice. That would do little to help with their already strained relationship – strained through disagreement over Dai’s career choice.

“Of course, dominus,” he said, working hard to keep the tight resentment from leaking into his voice.

“Great privilege. Working in Londinium. Do well here, could get transferred to Trev.” It was odd to hear the contraction of the regional capital in the mouth of a Roman, for some reason Dai had always assumed it was a British thing.

“Yes, dominus.” He noticed there was no mention of possible promotion. But then there could not be. The best he could ever hope for was a lateral transfer. No non-citizen ranked higher in the Vigiles. The Inquisitors and up were all Roman.

“Good. Sorted. Team Room XIII. Downstairs. They are expecting you. Dismissed.”

His life casually rewritten for him in less time than it took to boil a kettle, Dai found himself walking from the office wishing he’d not bothered putting in those extra revision sessions for his last exams.

Keep up-to-date with the latest information on the Dai and Julia Mysteries.

Chaos Fountain by D.C. Ballard is the story of Kyle Durlow. A chance encounter on the streets of San Diego rockets Kyle into a world where titans of industry have business meetings with gods, and he is dragged along for the ride.

“That would be due to mass shift. If it was the Phoenix station you had set our coordinates for.” came Tory’s weak voice from behind us.
“Tory?” I turned to look back at him.
“A wormhole is a short cut through the in-between. I feel a lot better.” He looked a lot better. Actually he looked almost normal, with the exception of a ragged pink scar across his nose.
“Our entrance into this area was spectacular enough. There should be a ship here within the hour.” said Tory.
“I thought wormhole drives didn’t work.” said Markus.
“Normally they don’t, or not well. I’m sure you know, they are very impractical because of the energy storage needs. I could never figure out how to make capacitors that could hold enough energy to make it work efficiently. It occurred to me that the fused field coils would do the job.”
“Amazing!” exclaimed Markus sounding indignant.
“What?” said Tory innocently.
“You utilize an experiment during a life and death situation. An experiment which might not have worked at all.” yelled Markus.
“We didn’t really have much choice.”
“You could have told us.”
“I was going to.”
“When? After it failed?” said Markus sarcastically.
“No. I was going to tell you once I was done with the final repairs.”
“But you didn’t count on the effect the radiation had on you.” said Markus getting angry.
“Right. And…”
“And we got jumped. By the gods, I do not believe you.” Markus said in exasperation.
“Markus.” said Tory pleadingly.
“Uh guys.” I said trying to get their attention.
“No. I’m not going to discuss it with you.” Said Markus, his voice clearly angry, and a red tinge to his normally void black scales.
“Guys!” I said louder.
“Look. I’m sorry. I figured you’d run for the edge of the system first.”
“I did, but we were outclassed by other ships.”
“GUYS!!” I screamed.
“What?” they said as one looking at me.
“Look.” I said pointing out the window. Outside were about 30 ships like the ones we had just escaped from.
“This is not good, I don’t recognize those craft.” said Tory, and that worried me a lot.
“What about those.” I said. As some 50 other ships began appearing behind the original 30.
“Those I recognize. Markus can you get me a comm link to those Andarian cruisers.”
“On line.” The connection was cut immediately from the destination end. “They cut us off. Wait. I’ve got a tight beam coming in on frequency 7.”
“That′s not good at all, let’s see it.” said Tory.

A Bite of ... D.C. Ballard

Q1: Would you rather be a hero or a villain?

Hmm… Neither? I look at it this way. A friend of mine uses me as his archetype for the villain’s he writes for his comics, none of which he has published despite my prompting. He does this, not because of me being evil, but based on a mindset. If I have henchmen, a big technological base with cameras and defenses, etc… Then why the hell am I going to go charging down to confront the cause of an alarm. That’s what I have camera’s, defenses, and henchmen for. Seriously, it makes no sense to place myself in harms way, or removed from easy access to my multiple escape routes.

Given all that, I suppose I would end up being the villain, or at least not the hero. Enlightened Self Interest only gets you so far. Sure, it will get you some points, but eventually you have to either give things away without getting anything for it, or be seen as the bad guy for expecting people to earn what you have to offer.

Q2: Why do you write? Money is an acceptable answer.

So my characters will be silent for a few hours so I can sleep.

Q3: Chocolate cake or coffee cake? And give reasons.

CHOCOLATE!!!! There need be no other answer or reasons, other than… CHOCOLATE!!!! I’m not an addict, you are. I can quite any time. Hey! Get away from that drawer. Don’t look in there…. No, that’s not my chocolate. I don’t know how that got in there, but I guess I’ll have a few pieces… Stop looking at me like that.

D.C. Ballard in his own words

I write and am published as D.C.Ballard, which is just the initialized version of my given name. I am a Husband, Father, and Pet-Papa (2 cats, 1 Min-pin). As a writer, I work mostly at night while my wife sleeps; writing, editing, building covers for my work, websites to help promote my work, and interacting with other authors online.

For me, the writing experience, and my relationship with my Muse and Characters is an interesting. My best description of Muse, unlike the gentle breeze of inspiration I hear other writers and artists describe, is that of a mountain of a man who likes to hide around corners with a spiked baseball bat and swing for the fences with my brain as the ball, when I walk into view.

My view into the Chronicles of Ascension Universe, which is where all my stories take place, even if they never come into contact, is much like looking through a window. A window, that over time, as you look through it, gets larger, cleaner, clearer, and merges with other windows you didn’t realize were part of the same Universe.

You can find the book on Amazon, Barnes&Nobel, Smashwords and Kobo and the author on Facebook, Twitter or his own website and blog.

Anna giggled as she reassembled her clothing.
“This is one mighty sturdy table. Not a drop of coffee spilled.”
Sam grinned.
“I made it as unwobbly as I could, though I didn’t have that in mind.”
“You made it?”
“With my own fair hands.”
“I’m deeply impressed.”
Then she grimaced at the cold coffee.
“We need fresh cappuccino. I’ll do it. You sort out your trousers.”
Sam grinned and bent to untwist his jeans from around his ankles. Once he was sorted, he snaffled a cookie and took a huge bite. Bonnie came over wagging happily, and he found her a treat from her own tin.
“Got you where she wants you, ain’t she?”
Anna remarked as she brought the fresh coffee to the table.
“I expect so,” he replied amiably. “But then, so do you.”
She came and kissed him.
“Might have. Does it bother you?”
“No. I like being wound around your finger. And any other bit of you I can get close to…”
“Dirty boy,” she sniggered, then sat beside him and reached for a cookie. “Right. How many invitations do we need printing, and how many should be emailed?”
“Off the top of my head? I haven’t a clue. When we’ve actually drunk this coffee, we’ll work it out.”
“That’d be good.”

As it turned out, most of the invitations were sent by email, although Mrs Jackson, and the few neighbours Sam actually talked to, got print versions, and Anna printed one for Danny and Paul, knowing Paul would want it as a keepsake. Plus, she popped one in an envelope to post to Jim and Patsy – writing a few affectionate words in the card to reassure her friend that she was really wanted.

“While I have your attention, love. I’ve ordered beds: six more king size for upstairs: one king size, one double, two singles, and a put you up for the annexe. And lots of bedding and towels. You want to look at what I’ve chosen?”
“If you want me to, of course I will, but I can’t promise much enthusiasm. Soft furnishings leave me cold.”
Anna giggled. “Fair enough. But, in that case, how come we have tasteful curtains in every room?”
“Simples. When Mrs Jackson moved, she had loads of what I was assured were very nice curtains going spare. Carrie made them fit the windows. I also bought the leather settees, the big leather chairs, and the rugs in the hallway, from the same source.”
“I see. And it is, indeed, very nice stuff. Not a bit old lady.”
“No. Furnishings wise Mrs J’s taste leans towards Scandinavian minimalist. No ornaments; she calls them dust catchers. No family photographs. Just clean lines, blonde wood, and superb comfort. She had her present bungalow completely remodelled to offer a modern open-plan living space; it scares the shit out of the other old dears in the development.”
“I bet. She sounds fascinating.”
“She is. And boy was she pissed off to see what a chintzy horror her old home has been turned into. And that isn’t the half of it. But I won’t spoil it by telling you any more. What I will do is take Bonnie for a walk, during which I’ll deliver the local invites, and post the one to Jim and Patsy. You coming?”
“No. I’ll do food for when you get back.”
“That would be lovely. I’ll probably be a couple of hours, by the time I have a nice visit with my best girl. You don’t have a few spare cookies I could take her, do you? She cooks, but she don’t bake.”
“Sure. I’ve even got a nice box. You go get your walking shoes on and I’ll do you up a box of mixed cookies.”
Sam got his boots and a battered flying jacket, by which time Anna had put a cloth bag on the kitchen table.
“Invitations, cookies, towel for Bonnie’s feet if you are going visiting, and a torch. If you are going to be later than six thirty will you give me a buzz? I’m planning steak and I don’t want to overcook stuff.”
“Will do.”
He kissed her fondly, put Bonnie on her lead and loped out.

Anna half expected a call to say Sam would be late, but at six fifteen she heard his key in the door, and Bonnie came bustling into the kitchen. Sam followed her grinning all over his face. Anna went into his arms and received a very satisfactory hug, before he went out to the boot room to take off his shoes and dump his coat and bag.
He came back into the kitchen and petted Bonnie extravagantly.
“This dog is a miracle. Mrs J isn’t ordinarily a great fan of animals, but Bonnie had her wrapped around her paw in about two minutes. I dunno if it was waiting so nicely to have her feet dried, or sitting at my feet doing her doting dog impression, or permitting herself to be stroked without jumping up or getting pushy. Whatever. The old dear fell in love.”
Anna laughed. “She’s a very calculating canine. But we love her, don’t we?”
“We do indeed. Before I forget, we already have one extra for the party. Mrs J’s favourite nephew is visiting her that weekend, so I said he was welcome. Is that OK?”
“Yes. Of course it is. The more the merrier.’
“Just one thing. He’s a gangster.”
Anna laughed.
“No. Seriously. He is. He’s Jim’s friend Geordie Jackson. About five feet of Glaswegian hard man, with more tattoos than I have ever seen on a human being before. Plus a flick-knife in the top of his sock.”
“That should be a laugh. Danny will be enchanted. He really likes gangsters, and they seem to like him. When he was working in Brazil he used to go to the favelas and play poker with the hard boys on his days off.”
“Rather him than me.”
“Oh indeed. I always felt sorry for Paul who lived in constant terror that something would happen to Danny.”
“I can see that. But I’m guessing that Danny couldn’t.”
“No. He’s fearless and deeply unimaginative himself, and can’t understand worry. There are times when I could clip his ear for him. However, Paul loves him and understands his odd ways. So.”
“So indeed. Now then. You promised me steak did you not? Do you have time for a nice glass of wine with me before you frizzle it?”
“What does the word frizzle signify?”
Anna demanded, trying very hard not to giggle.
“The word frizzle, woman,” Sam replied in lofty tones, “indicates any one of the many cooking processes of which I have no knowledge whatsoever. I leave such things to those into whose area of expertise they do fall.”
Then he spoilt his high-minded pose by grabbing Anna and tickling her until she screamed. She lolled against him sniggering.
“You are very, very silly, my love. Don’t ever get too grown up will you?”
“Shouldn’t think it’s very likely. My dad was as daft as a brush; he used to drive Mum mad by refusing to conform to the way a psychiatrist is supposed to behave. Mum was a bit more conventional, until he got her going – then she was hilarious. Half a glass of wine was enough…”
He looked down at his hands.
“I miss them, you know. I just wish you could have known them.”
He sounded so sad and strained that Anna put her arms around him and cuddled him strongly; slowly she felt the strain drain out of him. He looked down at her and smiled.
“You are my personal miracle,” he said wonderingly.
“Right back at you love. Now go get me a big glass of wine while I hunt up some nibbles before frizzling you a nice piece of steak.”

Jane Jago

Ha, ha, black sheep, have you any lies?
Yes sir, I’ve some to make you rub your eyes
I’ve one for the politics, and one for the kids
And one because I can’t remember anything I did

©️jj 2018

One lost shoe on the sandy passes
Strappy, girly, pink and gold
Useless in the sharp tall grasses
With a story yet untold
Is the owner young and lovely? 
Rolling with a lover?
Or is the truth more dark and ugly?
Cruelty uncovered?
One lost shoe and one lost tale
We carry it away
And wonder as we pour an ale
What happened there today

©️jj